By Sue Fagalde Lick
Holiday visiting ought to be an Olympic event. If it were, we would have just completed the decathlon: seven days of constant eating, talking and sleeping in a motel next to the freeway.
Having always lived in the midst of family and friends in the past, taking our visits in small doses, my husband and I were not prepared for the rigors of trying to see everyone we love in one week. But now that we live on the Oregon coast, we have joined the millions sending gifts by mail and boarding overloaded airplanes to fly "home" for Christmas.
It sounded easy. Once we landed in San Jose, all we had to do was drive around visiting friends and relatives, mooching free meals and enjoying quality time with our loved ones. And on the surface, that's how it went--with a few glitches.
We spent four hours waiting at the Portland airport, and despite all the spare rooms people offered in San Jose, we ended up at a hotel, where we could enjoy privacy, bad continental breakfasts and the sound of strangers going to the bathroom at 3 a.m. Plus, it was raining.
Mom and Dad were top priority. We tried to get in as many hours as possible at their house. But instead of treating us like family, they dropped everything to sit in the living room and "visit," which, after three days, meant we were into reruns on all our stories. You know it's bad when my husband has to read recipes from our Christmas cookbook to fill the gaps in the conversation.
Between stops with the folks, we packed a year's worth of visits into each day. On our first morning in San Jose, we popped quarters into the pay phones at the Le Baron Hotel and went through the address book, making calls until we had a schedule, not much different from work.
On our first day, we saw Mom and Dad, grabbed lunch at Lyon's, then visited my aunt and uncle, had dinner with our son and spent a few exhausting hours with friends who have two big dogs and four daughters under the age of 3. Everywhere we went, we ate twice as much as usual. Mom's house is cookie heaven; we had to try at least one of each of the 12 different kinds she offered. At my aunt and uncle's house, my cousin thrust warm Santas fresh from the oven into our hands. Dinner meant more food, and our friends served coffee after they wrestled the kids into bed. Bloating set in.
Day two brought four more visits, including lunch and dinner, more cookies and See's candy to sample. At each stop, we hugged, we sat, we ate, we talked, telling the same stories of our Oregon adventure. It was like performing the same show four times a day. My throat hurt every night from talking so much, and we made an emergency stop at 7-Eleven for Tums.
We became more and more miserable. We slept poorly on the motel slab bed. All this eating and talking was not accompanied by any kind of exercise. I tried swimming, but it was like moving a hippo through the tepid water. Easier to languish in the hot tub, which wasn't very hot.
Christmas Eve brought more eating, more visiting, more talking. We went out to dinner with the two older kids to a Greek restaurant, where we gorged on hors d'oeuvres and rich entrées, then returned to the house for gifts, more talk and more cookies.
By Christmas morning, my stomach rebelled, sending me to the bathroom every half hour. Church meant not just slipping in and praying, but more friends to hug and tell of the Oregon experience. We spent the day at the parents' house with my brother's family, repeating the same stories, opening gifts, eating, eating, eating. I held off until Christmas dinner, but then, looking at all that food, what could I do but go for the gold? Turkey, stuffing, Jello salad, green salad, green beans, rolls, apricot and pumpkin pie, champagne, mashed potatoes, gravy, more cookies ... Mom made it all, so how could I say no? We had barely recovered from dinner when she wanted to make turkey sandwiches.
Ugh. Hang on, stomach. It was hard to move. We sprawled on the sofa and chairs, munching peanut clusters and talking about dieting next week. I suggested we take a walk, but no one had the energy for it.
The day after Christmas brought no relief. Mexican lunch with my former editor. Gourmet four-course dinner with more friends. Food kept coming. Walk in a door, have a wine glass and a chocolate truffle placed in your hands.
With 30 hours to go, we were running out of steam. We didn't want to talk anymore; we were out of clean clothes, and we couldn't look at another cookie, but we still faced our farewell extravaganza at the parents' house. We checked our lists to see whom we missed and tried to figure out how to pack all the gifts, books and food we had acquired. Why did so many relatives opt to give us large breakable presents this year? How would we get everything home?
We love our gifts, we love our friends. Every visit was precious, but it was like watching 15 movies in a row. By the time you finish, you've forgotten all but the last film, and you can't stand the smell of popcorn anymore. You want to go home. Like those marathoners who enter a race with no hope of winning, we're just glad to have made it to the finish line.
It's all over now except for the thank-you notes and a lingering craving for sugar cookies with red sprinkles on top, but Christmas will come again all too soon. We'll need to start training in August, overeating rich foods and piggy-backing visits to our Oregon friends. Otherwise, we'll never make it.
You think running's tough? Try going home for Christmas. Only the strongest survive.
This article appeared in the Los Gatos Weekly-Times, January 15, 1997.
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